Stolen
by Christi Talmer
Summary: My name is Lucious Malfoy. My son is dead.


::disclaimer::

            harry potter and all related characters, insignia, etc. are the property of jk rowling and the time warner company. this piece of fiction was written solely for entertainment and its author claims no ownership. except of the nice part of lucious' soul.

::warnings::

            brief sexual references, death

**_Stolen_**

            My name is Lucious Malfoy, and my son is dead. I have served the Dark Lord since I was eighteen, and taught to revere his name before I could pronounce it. I took a wife at nineteen, and became a father before my next birthday. The first child died, but truly it was of little import. The babe was a girl, and both of us knew a male child was the key to survival in this new world. Despite popular opinion, we did not kill young Constantia. She had a weak heart, and no magic exists that can cure her, even now. Narcissa bore again a year later, and this time it was a boy. We were both overjoyed; our child would enjoy the sweetest nectar of our Lord's supply. Draconis would surely rise to become a formidable Death Eater, and bring honor to us, his parents. It seemed his sister's ill fate would not touch him; he lived in health until his second birthday. Suddenly illness took hold of him, and naught could heal him. Thus our second child died. It seemed that my family, the Malfoys, were cursed. As the only son of an only son, if I did not produce a suitable heir, the line would end. A miracle would be required now.

            For once, it seemed, luck was on my wife's side. A miracle occurred. Another child was born before the year was out, a mere three months to the day after Draconis passed. Another boy. Emerging from his mother's womb, Draco bore a head of black hair and unnaturally dark blue eyes. He was a beautiful child. Looking back, I must assume that Narcissa was barren. Three children she bore; three children died. There was no more time. If word got out that we had lost another heir, the stability we had worked for would slip. Even Crabbe and Goyle had produced heirs by now. Our lives would be quite literally forfeit if we failed in this task. No solutions remained, save one.

            The piece of Dark Magic we performed that night was quite possibly the most difficult I have ever executed. It required another child, preferably of wizarding heritage. Distasteful though it may be, I was forced to choose a half-blooded girl. I don't believe Narcissa was ever able to look over that fact, but at the time it was absolutely necessary. The girl (old enough to realize what was going on) shrieked with unparalleled ferocity, but I was unable to sedate her. We needed her alive and kicking, so to speak. To make a rather long story short, the blonde little girl died that night. Technically speaking, so did Draco. The difference between my son and the girl is that he survived.

            After that night, Narcissa was never able to look directly at Draco again, unable to forget that her son was now a half-breed, a Mudblood. I was able (to a degree) to overlook that fact while tending to his magical training. He was casting simple curses by the time he was five, and by the age of seven he was approaching the elder Goyle's level of magical ability. While Reginald Goyle's amount of skill is not very impressive, my son was an exceptionally quick learner. During long hours of training, I would examine my own spellbooks to discover why the Ritual had such unexpected side effects on my son. As I've said, when he was born, his eyes were darkest blue and his hair a heavy black, taking after his mother's side. After the little girl gave her life to him, his hair grew fine and whitish-blond. His eyes changed immediately to a stormy gray-blue; features far too similar to that girl's to be discounted. To this day I do not understand it.

            When Draco was nine (and beginning upper lever Dark spells, I should add), he attended Hogwarts for the first time. Of course, ordinary students must be eleven years old, but somehow the spell had altered his age. My son _aged_ that night. I don't understand that effect, either. Mentally, he had aged, and it was assumed that he was Draconis. Word never got out that the first boy had died, it seemed, and we did nothing to discourage the rumors. He took hold of Slytherin House immediately, like a true Malfoy. By the end of his third year, the entire house operated on his word. A girl named Pansy took a fancy to my son, but I never really became involved with the negotiations. Narcissa and Mistress Parkinson (Ophelia, I believe) managed most of it. All that was required of me was approval, which I gave willingly. Pansy's family is both pureblooded, rich and faithful; besides which, Pansy was becoming a woman. She would be an excellent wife for my son: beautiful, wide-hipped, intelligent and dangerous. Though I know many who would contest it, during the negotiations I was allowed to view her skills. I can only say that her abilities--magical and otherwise--are remarkable.

            School passed quickly for Draco, and, when he finally graduated it was time for him to become a full Death Eater. The process would be relatively quick, as he had already proved his loyalty many times over. I've heard that the Dark Lord had a special project for him involving Harry Potter, and after he completed his supposed 'assignment' my son could do nothing but smirk for weeks. According to the newspapers, Potter suffered 'numerous injuries and a psychological breakdown' later that week. I was rather proud of my son at that moment. 

            The process _did_ end quickly, and my son became a true follower. He was placed at my lord's right hand immediately, and nothing made me prouder than the fact that my son worked beside me. My dreams, his dreams, had finally come true. We were unstoppable. We had made it. Draco was extraordinarily interested in the Dark Lord's plans, and begged to be a part of as many as possible. When one failed, Draco returned with the traitors and personally executed them. My Lord was very pleased with this, and elevated Draco to a second-in-command. My son had surpassed me, which is the dream of all parents. Draco was having a better life than I. When a second scheme ended in a bloody showdown, the Dark Lord plotted with my son to weed out the traitors. I knew nothing of it then, of course, but looking back it was obvious. They were too close. Draco was pressing too hard; it was all bound to end in catastrophe.

            It was an early week in August, I believe, a little over a year past his graduation. Draco was preparing to be married to Pansy the next morning, and the two of us were making last minute preparations. Before I left the room, he asked to talk to me about something that had been bothering him. Surprised, I sat and remained. He slowly, carefully explained his past tactics, and the work of years that had gained him his current exalted position. I understood him through the long details, picturing events in my head. When he gave his reasons, however, my heart stopped.

"I've done it all to betray him, Father. Tonight. I want you to come with me. Live with me in the new world, because this world isn't going to be here in the morning. Help me to betray him, and all is forgiven. Our name will no longer be one of disgrace and hatred, but one of salvation. Come with me."

            What could I have done differently? After his confession, I think a part of me shattered, but a part of me was freed. Overwhelmed entirely, it was all I could do to stand and walk into the corridor. I heard his quiet pleas behind me, but I kept walking. It's a miracle that I wasn't killed there, but he wasn't planning to kill me. I knew that. He would not have told me anything if he had wanted me dead. Draco wished for me to come with him. Entirely adrift (and, I will admit, rather sloshed), I turned to the one man I had always turned to in the past. The worst decision of my life was made that night. 

            I took my problems to Lord Voldemort, hoping for comfort. I shouldn't have been so stupid. Instead of being offered guidance, I was offered my son, beaten and bloody. Inside of my study, I was presented with a battered Draco. He was in his traveling robes; or, at least, what remained of them. Strips of fabric littered the room, which meant he had been here. Waiting for me.

_You should have left, foolish child!_

Turning to me, Voldemort pronounced the sentence for treason: immediate death. This in itself was not unknown, but his next sentence will haunt my heart forever.

"Lucious, I grant your son this last mercy in view of his service. His father will be allowed to kill him, instead of I. Be thankful for my mercy, traitor."

            I stared. First at the Dark Lord, then at Draco. Red eyes gleamed at me expectantly from one face, but I could not see my son's face. His blonde hair matted with blood, blocked my view. Drawing my dagger, I advanced slowly, still feeling the alcohol heavily. I dropped to my knees in front of him, and placed a finger under his chin, forcing him to look at me. The look in his eyes made me stop: utter defeat, despair, and, underneath that, something else. Apology. Regret. He mouthed the words to me:

"I'm sorry, Father."

If not for that, I wouldn't have stopped. As it was, the knife clattered from my hands. I did not rise, and vaguely registered Voldemort's sigh behind me.

"Very well...I will do it myself."

            After that, I don't know what happened. I went mad, I suppose, under my Lord's control. Perhaps he wanted me to feel that pulsating rage, the sensation of riding the knife-edge of insanity. Maybe my resistance to the curse was lowered due to alcohol. However it happened, I lost control completely. It's rather ironic, what happened next. My son lost his life to a Muggle invention, after a half-Muggle gave him life. A gun, a pistol to be correct. I had taken a fancy to it years ago, while I was still young. I had kept it in my study for some time, admiring it in spare moments. Sensing that I had no power left for a killing curse, the Dark Lord gave me a crutch to use in that pistol. Draco died instantly, a mercy rarely granted. For that, I suppose I should be thankful to my Lord. Tomorrow, I will be required to be a Death Eater once more, the lowest of the low. I was unable to obey my lord because of human sentiment and weakness, and now the Malfoy line will end. I am too old to father an heir now.

            Draco is still lying there, on the floor of my study. A little blood has stained the carpet, but his eyes are thankfully closed. He looks peaceful. I intend to join him soon, to leave this cursed world for the next. Though I understand my soul is already forfeit, death is the only suitable human punishment I can devise. I still have the pistol, a beautiful and terrible thing, at my side. It's rather fitting that one bullet remains in my weapon; one for the father, one for the son. I have failed my line, my lord and my family. Nothing remains here for me now. As for Draco...he lived on stolen years. I am thankful for the time I was given with him, but now I will pay dearly for my human desires.

            My name is Lucious Malfoy. My son is dead. So am I.

::author note::

            This popped into my head one night a little while ago, and I composed it that same night. It's taken me a bit to write it down, but I'm rather happy I did.  If you're interested, the sequel to _Invisibility is on the way. Now, review. Then go get some chocolate; I daresay you need it._


End file.
